


Tête-à-tête

by FictionPenned



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, contains mentions of in-canon violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27255178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: “If one is to be disemboweled, one has every right to speak on the matter,” Dr. Chilton replies, seemingly unfazed by the specificity. If anything, he appears to be almost flattered to learn that someone was monitoring him so closely. Freddie can use that, weaponize it it as a way into his confidence.“Oh, I absolutely agree.” The words are a throaty purr. “Everyone has the right to tell their own story. That’s why I do what I do, you know. I give a voice to the voiceless.” At best, the claim is a severe exaggeration. At worst, it is an outright lie. “And I imagine,” she continues, reaching up a hand to sweep a red curl away from her face, “That you do much the same for your patients.” That, too, is an exaggeration at best and a lie at worst. Its worth as a statement hinges entirely upon whether or not Chilton is egotistical enough to swallow it as pure, unadulterated truth.Thankfully, he is.Written for Fic In A Box 2020.
Relationships: Dr. Frederick Chilton & Freddie Lounds
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Tête-à-tête

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegaBarrett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/gifts).



Generally speaking, Freddie Lounds is a woman free from the confines of shame. She is, after all, a tabloid journalist, and if there is anything in this world less shameless than a tabloid, she has yet to encounter it. Much as tabloids are harsh, jarring headlines and a series of presumptuous conclusions slapped over candid photos, Freddie drapes herself in arrogant, slinking pride and slightly out-of-date, mismatched designer clothes that she never could have afforded if she bought them firsthand. She strides through the violent world of the elite as if she belongs there, as if she is one of them, born into power and guaranteed success, but she is not one of them. She is a hustler, fighting tooth and nail for every story, every quote, every photo. She lives uncertain paycheck to uncertain paycheck, banking on ads and clicks and views to make ends meet. Though the many people who she crosses in her line of work are willing to jump down her throat and berate her for her methods, she is merely doing what she needs to do in order to get by. If that means that corners are cut, trespassing becomes necessary, or the truth needs be exaggerated, so be it. It’s a journalist eat journalist world out there.

Her shoes clack on the linoleum floor as she strides through the front doors of the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It is not her first visit her, nor is it likely to be her last. Interesting people populate these halls — each with their own stories to be mined for profit — but most importantly, the story of the Chesapeake Ripper seems to converge upon this very point over and over again — first by way of Abel Gideon, then by way of the butchery of Frederick Chilton (an event for which she was, unfortunately, very much _present_ ), and now, the incarceration of Will Graham.

Perhaps, finally, this will represent the end of the Chesapeake Ripper’s reign of terror. Like many others, Freddie firmly believes that Will Graham is responsible not only for the death of Abigail Hobbs, but the deaths of many who preceded her. However, there is still a flutter of anticipation that lurks in the back of her mind. Some primal instinct deep within her knows that this narrative is not yet over. Something else is going to happen. Something is going to go wrong. She only wishes that she knew what that something might be.

It is that instinct that lead her back her, as surely and strongly as a gravitational pull.

Unusually, however, she does not plan to seek an audience with Will Graham — not that he’d deign to speak with her after being put on the spot with the more difficult questions that she’d posed during their last encounter. No, she is here to speak to Frederick Chilton, a man who has seemingly been sneaking around corners and making secret recordings and whispering in ears as often as she has. She is very interested in whatever information he has gathered since Will Graham had been placed under his care, and given what she knows about him, she does not doubt that a bit of well-placed flattery and a touch of ego-stroking will convince him to hand over everything she needs to put together the remaining pieces of this puzzle.

Freddie knocks on Dr. Chilton’s door with a gloved hand even as she eases it open, a wolfish grin slipping across her lips as she sets her hungry gaze upon the office’s occupant. “Good afternoon, Dr. Chilton. Mind if I come in?” Her voice is deliciously airy, lined with an assumed affect that speaks to a wealthy, slightly overzealous mother patronizing a PTA bake sale.

Frederick Chilton does not bother to hide his surprise. Indeed, he visibly flinches at the interruption, looking up with an intense degree of alarm that only lessens once his wide-eyed gaze has thoroughly swept over Freddie in her entirety. Freddie notes the gesture with a small tic mark in her mental notes. If not overtly useful in and of itself, it is a gesture that could be worked into a story — woven into the tapestry of her narrative to create the picture of a man shaken by her experiences.

“Ah, Miss Lounds, please take a seat,” he says after a lengthy pause spent collecting himself, smoothing the front of his shirt and adjusting in his chair, as if some sort of physical discomfort was the cause of the sudden gesture and not the journalist’s interruption.

Freddie takes a couple steps forward, making a point to turn and close the door behind her. Though she has no qualms listening in on other people’s conversations, she generally prefers it if people do not eavesdrop on her own. First print rights are valuable things in the journalistic arena. Whoever scoops the story first tends to get all the credit, and hyperlinks and a good byline are both vital instruments of war. “I fear it’s been a terribly long time since we last saw each other,” she comments as she sinks into the open chair opposite his, delicately crossing one leg over the other. “I thought I’d ask how you were doing.”

Her bright blue eyes roam away from him for a moment, focusing briefly on the cane that sits propped against a chest of drawers. Given the amount of damage that she watched Gideon enact upon Dr. Chilton and the fact that Freddie spent a long time hand-pumping air into his lungs to keep hm alive, it is somewhat surprising that Frederick managed to escape as intact as he did.

It is even more surprising that he kept his position as administrator of the very hospital in which Gideon was meant to be housed at the time. She would have expected Chilton to either quit or be fired, whichever happened first. Perhaps he was simply too proud to throw in the towel, and perhaps the board was too embarrassed to fire someone seriously injured in the line of duty, lest they face a lawsuit. She will have to pry into the matter later, when she’s back at home, tapping away at her laptop keyboard.

Frederick Chilton engages in the slightly pained mockery of a smile as he replies, “I think we both know that if you wanted to know how I was recovering, you would have stopped in long before now, Miss Lounds.”

Freddie’s eyes sparkle. So rarely is she treated to a conversation with someone who is willing to play her game on her terms, according to her rules, and yet, this little opening salvo speaks to a man who is also accustomed to toying with people, also accustomed to getting what he wants, also thirsty for recognition. “It is natural for someone to avoid reminders of traumatic events, Dr. Chilton. I believe the experience at the conservatory was traumatic for both of us.”

Some of the pain fades from Chilton’s expression, and the smile widens. “And yet you wrote about it.”

Freddie uncrosses her legs and leans forward, resting her forearms on the man’s desk and clasping her hands together. Her fiery red curls trace the curve of her shoulder as she flips a bit of hair out of her face with aquick flick of her head. “So did you. Twice, if I remember correctly. Seven times, if you count the interviews you sat for.”

She keeps careful tabs on all of the people involved in her stories, has Google alerts set to trigger on dozens of names. Every link is added to a color-coded and meticulously categorized spreadsheet, sortable by over a dozen useful variables. She likes having access to information. Information is, after all, both power and currency in her line of work. She can weave it into her stories or hold it over people’s heads or accuse her competitors of publishing untrue information. There are no limits to her creativity and cunning.

“If one is to be disemboweled, one has every right to speak on the matter,” Dr. Chilton replies, seemingly unfazed by the specificity. If anything, he appears to be almost _flattered_ to learn that someone was monitoring him so closely. Freddie can use that, weaponize it it as a way into his confidence. 

“Oh, I _absolutely_ agree.” The words are a throaty purr. “Everyone has the right to tell their own story. That’s why I do what I do, you know. I give a voice to the voiceless.” At best, the claim is a severe exaggeration. At worst, it is an outright lie. Freddie is not particularly magnanimous unless it serves an ulterior purpose. Offering Abigail a platform and saving Chilton’s life are, perhaps, the kindest things she has done in years, but both things had certain selfish undertones. She would profit from a book deal just as much as Abigail, and she had no interest in either watching someone die or finding herself somehow charged as an accessory to his murder. “And I imagine,” she continues, reaching up a hand to sweep a red curl away from her face, “That you do much the same for your patients.” That, too, is an exaggeration at best and a lie at worst. Its worth as a statement hinges entirely upon whether or not Chilton is egotistical enough to swallow it as pure, unadulterated truth

Thankfully, he _is_.

“Many of my patients feel as though I am the only person they can truly confide in,” Dr. Chilton says with a toothy, scavenger’s smile. “They provide me access to their deepest thoughts, their most basic urges, insight that other psychologists and authors would scramble over each other to get. That is what placed me in so much danger with Gideon, you know. He fear that I knew too much of his nature.”

Freddie blinks. “As I recall, you thought he was the Chesapeake Ripper.”

The doctor grimaces. “Yes, well, it was a logical conclusion to make, given his profile and the things he was telling me in confidence. Anyone else would have thought the same.”

Freddie inhales, eyes sliding across the papers scattered over Chilton’s desk, stealthily scanning their contents. The first skill any prospective journalist learns is the art of reading upside down text quickly. She consumed the entirety of _War and Peace_ with the book completely inverted when she was a teenager, much to the annoyance of her temporary guardians. This practice serves her well, now, however. She picks up details about Will Graham’s medications, and makes a mental note of the complicated names. She will research what their purposes are when she gets home later. Unlike the many doctors she’s been stalking, she did _not_ go to medical school, but Google is her friend and loyal companion.

“I take it you have since changed your mind?” she prods.

Dr. Chilton rolls his eyes skyward, leaning back at his chair and adjusting his tie as he drolls, “Hasn’t everyone?”

Freddie’s mouth quirks ever so slightly upward — a hunting dog that has just hit upon a scent. “You sound like a man with an unpopular opinion, Dr. Chilton.”

A rush of air oozes between the man’s lips, slow, beleaguered, long-winded. “I am not one to swim against the tide of public opinion.”

“You could’ve fooled me.” Freddie leans forward even further, reducing the space between them as much as the formidable presence of the desk will allow. “C’mon, let a girl in. Surely you must have the most informed opinion on the situation, since Will Graham is in your care. Heard anything interesting from him lately.”

Chilton’s lips purse. Freddie can practically sense the energy as his thoughts jump from possibility to possibility, weighing the pros and cons of sharing privileged information with a tabloid journalist. In the end, his desire to seem important and be lauded wins out over any reasonable sense of hesitation. “Will Graham has been shockingly mute on his crimes, except to deny culpability. Most of the men in my care brag about their crimes, exaggerate them, lay claim to atrocities that they did not even commit, and yet, Will is stubborn. Perhaps his little ‘ _empathy disorder_ ’ gets in the way of typical killer behavior.” Chilton drawls out the phrase ‘empathy disorder’ mockingly. Clearly, he places about as much faith in Will’s impression of himself as Freddie does. It is yet another position that they share.

“Does that mean that you don’t believe that Will was the copycat?”

Chilton’s gaze once again roll towards the ceiling, scrutinizing it with single-minded intensity. “I think he has certainly killed _Abigail_ , and is, perhaps, one step removed from becoming a serial killer in his own right. One small push and —“ Chilton drops his eyes and raises his hands, miming a human tottering towards the edge of a cliff before stumbling over the side.

“Then who do you think murdered the other victims?” A hint of disappointment frays the edges of her voice. Until now, they were on the same page, but Freddie Lounds still firmly believes that Will is responsible for the Copy Cat murders. To her, it is the only explanation that makes sense, but she is still willing to hear Chilton out. Even if she doesn’t buy into it, conspiracy sells.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Suddenly restless, Chilton picks up a sharpened letter opener on his desk, twirling the blade idly between his fingers. Freddie tracks the motion with some degree of interest, reverse engineering it to determine whether or not Frederick Chilton is a man capable of violence, but his confidence seems feigned, his grip awkward, his avoidance of the sharpened edges hesitant. In her assessment, Chilton has never used a knife for anything more distasteful than cutting into a steak at a downtown restaurant. “Dr. Lecter.”

Freddie laughs — a whole-bodied, entirely disbelieving laugh. “You buy Will’s story?”

“No. I believe Will is firmly mired in his own denial, but every good story contains an element of truth. His just happens to contain more than most.”

“This would cause a coup if I was to put it to print with your name, you know. ‘Local Doctor Accuses Well-Respected Colleague of Committing a Series of Gruesome Murders.’ The internet would light up instantly. You’d be investigated. Lose your license, even. You’re building your own funeral pyre on Will Graham’s faulty kindling.”

Chilton rolls his eyes. “Oh, _please_. Let’s not pretend that I’m putting my name to this. I have no intention of becoming the next victim.”

A thought occurs, and Freddie’s tongue dashes across her lips — in and out in an instant — before she asks, “Have you shared your suspicions with Jack Crawford?”

“I have,” Chilton says, as if it is the most obvious answer in the world. “I am no amateur, Miss Lounds. If there is a killer with my name in his book, I intend to see him stamped out before I’m spread on his table.”

Freddie raises her chin, gaze lofty. “You were wrong before.”

“So was everyone else. Forgive me if I refuse to dwell on it.”

There’s a flicker of a smile lurking in the corner of Freddie’s lips, and she sees Chilton’s eyes zone in upon it as if suddenly hungry for a meal only she can provide. She doubts that his only interest in her reporting, and she does not blame him. She often has that effect on the people whom she interviews. A great number of useful informants have warmed her bed. You never know what information one might be inclined to share in the wake of a good orgasm. Brian Zeller, for one, was _exceptionally_ chatty.

“What makes you so sure?” she asks.

The psychiatrist places the letter opener back on his desk, careful to keep its point oriented away from him, lest he accidentally stab himself. If Freddie wasn’t certain that he was entirely incapable of murder before, she is now.

“Dr. Lecter,” he begins, speaking the name as if it is a particularly vile curse, “Was a surgeon before he became a psychiatrist. A good one, too. People said they never saw a young talent with such steady hands. He also has always possessed a certain weakness for art and beautiful things.”

Freddie cocks her head.

Chilton clears his throat. “He’s an artist. His entire office is lined in sketches, and he sometimes provides them as gifts to important people at conventions. Utterly tasteless, in my opinion, but no one there ever asks what I think.” He stews in his bitterness before adding, “He sharpens his pencils with a scalpel, you know, claims it’s the only way to get the sharpest point.”

Freddie uncrosses and recrosses her legs. She is tempted to lean away from the doctor across from her, to frown, to shut down the conversation before she wastes any more time chasing the rabbits of his personal grudges, but she does not wish to burn this bridge prematurely. Though Chilton may not be a man with viable theories, he is a man with access to privileged information, and he is interested in sharing it with her, two opportunities that she cannot squander, no matter what her personal opinions of the man might me.

“Forgive me, but I fail to see how that’s relevant to the conversation.”

Chilton sighs. It is an overwhelming sound, like the wash of a storm-tossed wave against an all-too diminutive house. “The Copy Cat murders were meticulous, down to the detail. They’re studied, and moreover, the Ripper considers himself an artist. Corpses are his canvas. Every murder is a statement, meant to be observed, to shock, to awe. Tell me that half the Ripper’s crime scenes would not look out of place in the MOMA.”

Freddie merely blinks. Unlike so many of the people who surround this case, she has never had the money to travel, access to museums, or time to study art in her spare time. However, no one bothers to notice.

Dr. Chilton reaches for his cane, tightening his fingers around its head. “The Beverly Katz murder was very Damian Hirst.”

“I believe you overestimate my familiarity with the art world. I work in crime, not culture.”

“They overlap. Crime informs culture and culture informs crime.” With great effort, Frederick Chilton rises. His muscles shake and his balance is unsteady. Most people might offer a hand, or at least preemptively jump to their feet in case of a fall, but Freddie merely continues to sit there, eyeing the man curiously.

“Surely there must be other surgeons who are artists.”

“Most likely,” Chilton says, taking a step around the desk, slowly circling to Freddie’s side. “But there are very few artists who are surgeons, and very few surgeons who are serial killers. In the intersection, you’ll find your killer, and if we were at a betting table, Miss Lounds, I would stake all my money on Dr. Lecter.”

Freddie’s mouth curls again. “But you’re not willing to bet your reputation, otherwise you’d let me put your name to the story.”

“I’m not willing to bet my _life_ ,” Chilton corrects, sternly. “As I said, Dr. Lecter has already expressed no particular care for my company. I have no intention of suddenly becoming a priority.” He stops beside Freddie’s chair, leaning against the wooden edge of the desk with a certain degree of feigned nonchalance and checks his watch. “Are you busy tonight, Miss Lounds?”

Finally, the question she was expecting.

She flicks her eyes over him, taking her time, absorbing every inch of him. There are few things that build intimacy as quickly as being forced to watch a person’s living dissection and then act as their only lungs, and she would be lying if she wasn’t tempted to accept the invitation, to use him for both her pleasure and the possibility of information. However, she likes to think that she has accurate taken his measure, and he seems like a man who wriggles when he’s on the hook, who gives himself to the allure of the chase, who cannot resist a bit of well-timed rapport.

So she will wait.

She will tease.

She will bide her time and collect the little gifts with which he will no doubt woo her.

“I have a previously scheduled interview. Another time?” She brushes against him as she stands, the contact momentary but very, very intentional.

Chilton smiles.

“Another time.”

Freddie types up half the story in the parking lot, thumbs busily criss-crossing the tiny keyboard of her phone.

As requested, she does not include Frederick Chilton’s name.

Though she believes that his theory is mostly nonsense and fully worthy of public lambasting, she is also interested in keeping him alive a little bit longer.


End file.
